


Honey Cake and Persimmon

by aldonza



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:53:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25396459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldonza/pseuds/aldonza
Summary: Christine mistakes her maestro and the Persian for a couple. All of Erik’s plans go to hell from there.Or, the pharoga fake dating AU.
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian
Comments: 32
Kudos: 48





	Honey Cake and Persimmon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [helloitskrisha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloitskrisha/gifts).



> Crawled out of writer's block today to create this, based on a prompt from helloitskrisha (hope you like this haha, it's actually been on my to-do list for a while).:
> 
> \--> "A PHAROGA FAKE DATING/FAKE RELATIONSHIP AU (but they're secretly pining for each other)"
> 
> It took me a while to get around to the prompts, but I'm trying my best. As always with me, this Nadir is more Leroux's Persian than Kay's!

Christine could not say she was entirely at ease in the little house on the lake. Her maestro had gone through much effort to ensure her every comfort, certainly, but she’d yet to shake the nerves his very presence caused. She was used to the lake, the difference between damp and dry air, and the Gothic horrors that house yielded, as well as its mundane rooms and hidden delights. She thought of it as a glorified dollhouse, a stage and lounge all at once. In some ways, she was also accustomed to Erik: the fact that he was a man of flesh and blood, the reason for his mask, the mad ticks and tricks up his sleeves. 

But after their dreadful first meeting-- or rather, abduction-- and the debacle with his face, she could not say she would ever be at ease with the angel of music again. She felt a certain degree of pity for him and still, more a degree of betrayal for his deception, and still more, fear for his professed love. She feared he would die should she abandon him. She feared he would keep her down in the cellar forever should she not escape. She feared he would harm Raoul should she even bring up the question. 

She wanted to tell him these things, certainly, and it was well within her right. But Erik- the Erik she knew- was not a man with sense. Capable of great constructions and even greater destruction. And Christine was not so naive as to believe he would understand or agree with her concerns.

“Is something the matter, my dear?” 

He asked from the piano, gliding scales with those spidery fingers. His voice was a hum in itself, as enticing as Lucifer’s, and Christine could not fall for the same trap twice.

She shook her head. 

“The last exercise left my throat a bit dry,” she told him, “may I pour myself some more tea?”

Christine stood, about to run to the kitchen when Erik- in a blink- slid from the piano and into her path, yellow eyes frantic behind his dark mask. 

“Nonsense, nonsense!” he uttered, settling her back in the divan with a pat to the wrist. “I have said so before and I shall say it again- you are my guest and Erik will treat you as such! Let him retrieve a new cup for you now.”

“Thank you-”

Erik turned on his heels, and just as Christine returned to her bundle of nerves, she heard the doorbell ring. She paled. Who would call on their house? Who- in their right mind- would venture five cellars down and ring the ghost’s door? For a second, she worried it was Raoul.

Then she heard Erik hiss, “That great booby.” To her, he said, “Forgive me, Christine. I’ll be right back, or that incessant bell will ring all day.”

“Erik- who-”

And like a phantom, Erik was gone. Christine sat back and stared at her empty cup. She could refill it herself, she supposed, and pretend nothing was the matter. But she feared this tentative acquaintance she had with Erik would come to a turning point one way or another. Perhaps it was now.

Resolve hardened, Christine left her seat and followed the direction Erik left, out of the sitting room and to the entrance. The front door was ajar and voices were trailing in from outside. Christine leaned forward.

She heard Erik speak, rather roughly, as he argued with another man, the new voice some octaves deeper and equally brash. When she tried to make sense of their words, she realized they were not speaking French at all, or any tongue she knew.

Christine peeked, a hand coming to her mouth as to prevent her gasp. 

She knew her way around the Opera enough to recognize its frequent faces. This man, she knew, though only in glimpses. And they had never quite conversed. It was the Persian, in his fur cap and familiar trench coat. And he did not seem to fear Erik one bit.

In fact, she was quite sure  _ he _ was the one that instigated the argument with Erik.

He stabbed a finger into Erik’s chest. Her maestro swatted the hand away and said something his way, a curl of words that sounded-

Playful?

The Persian was not amused. While they argued on, he grabbed Erik’s hands and pulled him close. They were friends, it seemed? It was hard to understand, but she could wrap her mind around it-- they were both outcasts, both shadows in the theatre, both men that no one else would dare approach.

“Daroga!”

Erik twisted away, and snatched the mask off, perhaps meaning to intimidate his friend. The Persian stepped forward, blocking Erik from view. But Christine could not stifle her next gasp. The man had bent forward, Erik again in his grip, and she did not know if she could interpret what she saw as anything other than a kiss. 

Perhaps a custom from his homeland? But what custom required a man to dip another man and- if Erik’s muffled voice was anything to go by- silence him with a touch to the lips. She hoped it was a touch.

Christine founder herself rooted to the spot while the Persian said his goodbyes, his face stony as he wagged a finger Erik’s way. Now it was Erik’s back blocking the other man from view. She saw the heavy rise and fall of his shoulders, as if he too was recovering from the sight. Erik said something quietly, then he dismissed the Persian with a wave.

As he adjusted the strings of his mask, his name slipped from Christine’s mouth:

“Erik-”

He whipped around, the edge of his jacket fluttering. “Christine? Did I not tell you to wait inside, oh- did that wretched man cause you fright- are you all right?”

“No, no. I’m perfectly fine, Erik- I’m sorry, I heard arguing- I- is the Persian your friend?”

“The Persian?” he repeated, then said, “ah yes, that’s how they know him, correct? He is…  _ no friend of mine.” _

There was a note of bitterness in this tone, but the kind of bitterness one only used with someone very dear. And suddenly, Christine felt herself overcome with a bout of guilt.  _ Not a friend, _ she thought, _ not a friend! _ How silly she felt, to have thought Erik’s confessions of love anything more than her own love for Mama Valerius. How narcissistic, to have thought he wished to wed her. How silly and close-minded to have thought he craved her simply because she was a woman and he, a man.

Erik froze when she took his cold hands in hers. She held them close and said, “Oh! I see now, yes, not a friend, not only a friend. I’m sorry, Erik, to have wronged you so.”

Erik did not speak, still basking in the warmth of her hands. Then, when her words registered, he answered, “Christine, my dear- are you unwell, whyever should you apologize to your Erik?”

And Christine laughed, a whole weight removed from her shoulders. 

“All this time- you must think me so dim!- all this time, I’d thought you were courting me, but that could not be farther from the truth. Please forgive me, Erik, but you must understand- most men around me, they have an inclination towards women- and I feared you wanted to make me your bride. I was so terribly scared!”

She kissed his knuckles, no longer scared of death’s scent. “Forgive your Christine, Erik, for being so silly, so quick to judge.”

“Christine, I don’t understand.”

Then she smiled up at him, and Erik’s eyes seemed to melt into a puddle of gold. “From now on, you may tell me anything, Erik. You are my dear friend, and if the Persian is your lover, then I shall love him as well.”

Erik stared. 

And stared.

And stared.

“The Persian is my lover,” he said, very quietly. Shyly, perhaps. 

“I won’t tell anyone,” she told him, “I promise, Erik, I swear on my life.”

“The Persian is my lover,” he said again, struggling to piece something together in his brain.

Then he met her gaze, and nodded, a slow string of words leaving his lips:

_ “Ah yes. The Persian is Erik’s lover.” _

* * *

“Erik, have you any idea what you’re asking of me?”

The Daroga clutched his pipe, raking his teeth against its tip after many a failed attempt to understand the Ghost’s request. He looked to Erik from across the coffee table, their tea long since cold and Darius standing quietly at their side, no reaction to Erik’s tale. Nadir shook his head.

“You tell me you never want to see my ‘sorry persian hide’ again,” he recounted, “then you call on me when the sun has yet to rise and you ask-”

The words sounded even more incomprehensible from his own mouth. 

“You ask me to be your paramour so Mlle. Daae will - I repeat- continue to think we are lovers? What, Erik, led to this cursed idea?”

Erik’s fingers strummed along the edge of his seat. 

“What part of my predicament is so hard to grasp, Daroga? It is just as I’ve said! She thinks Erik a monster and fears him.”

“And whose fault is that,” Nadir muttered.

Erik pretended not to hear and prattled on, so quickly his words overlapped, “In these circumstances, it’s only a matter of time before she runs off with her young man! But now she’s told me herself, she is ever so sorry for having thought ill of me.”

Nadir looked to Darius but found no reaction to speak of. “Then I suppose it puts her heart at ease to know you harbor no affection for women? Fine. Let’s say I go along with your infernal ideas. What then?”

“Not ‘then,’ but next! She will be most happy to continue her time with me, and once she has come to love her Erik, I will end our farce.”

Erik snapped his fingers. “Just like that, and you shall be free of me.”

“So you intend on deceiving her  _ again.  _ Have you learned nothing from the last time?”

And Erik scoffed like a pigheaded wretch. “You’re so stubborn, Daroga. Why must you taint everything I say? It’s not deception so much as, so much as, playing house, yes! Whatever makes Christine most at ease.”

“Well. My answer is no. Go home, Erik.”

Erik crossed his arms, and slipping Nadir an impish glance, said, “Shall I remind you whose fault this was, you old fart? What possessed you to accost me by the lake?”

At that, Nadir felt a twinge of anger flare. He had been chastising the humbug for his wicked ways when Erik sought to intimidate him with his excuse of a face. Nadir grabbed him, meaning to shake reason into his bones, when Erik tried to plunge them both into the lake. Nadir hadn’t had much choice except to cling on.

And when Erik had attempted to call him a “busybody booby” again, Nadir silenced him by shoving a palm against his mouth, the two of them a tangle of limbs by then. Evidently, Christine Daae had mistaken their scuffle for something else entirely, if Erik’s account could be trusted. 

“I shall call on her right now,” Nadir said, “and clear this up.”

“No! No!” Then Erik was on his knees, groveling at Nadir’s feet. “Please, Daroga, have pity. Erik has never asked anything of you before-”

“I saved your life, if you recall-”

“But I did not ask you to! Now I am begging, on my hands and knees, Daroga, do me this favor and I will do anything you ask, anything at all!”

Nadir mulled over his pleads. “Anything at all, you say?”

“Yes, oh yes!”

He placed a hand under Erik’s chin, pinching a bit of jaw below that mask. He could feel Erik whining in his throat.

“I’ll agree to this idiocy on two conditions.”

“Anything,” Erik gasped.

Nadir stroked that jaw, the skin smooth and papery all the same.

“One, you stop harassing the theatre. I wish to hear nothing more about the opera ghost.”

His fingers ran a line from Erik’s chin to his chest. 

“Two, you leave Mlle. Daae and the Vicomte alone. Do not badger them, threaten them, or anything else.”

“But,” Erik said, quivering, “but-”

“If these conditions do not sit well with you, go back to your cellar.”

Erik grabbed Nadir’s hand, and clinging tightly, cried, “It’s done, Daroga! It’s done! You have my word.”

“Remember, break these rules and our relationship ends.”

Erik nodded, fiercely. Then Nadir shoved the pipe into his grip, taking his own hand out. And nudging Erik, he said, clipped, “Now be a considerate lover and light my pipe.”

The desperation in Erik’s eyes turned into a glower. And rather satisfied with having gained the upper hand, Nadir added, “Go on. Would you not do anything for me,  _ the love of your life?” _

Erik bit back a insult before he snatched the pipe and stood. _ “Right away, love.” _

“Thank you,  _ my dear.” _

When Erik turned his back, Darius approached Nadir and said in his ear, “Master, are you so sure about this?”

Nadir chuckled. “We shall see.”

* * *

When Erik next brought Christine to the house on the lake, the Persian was waiting in the sitting room. The Daroga looked entirely at ease without any of the sour glares he’d given Erik at dawn. It was just as well. Let that old fart see for himself how easy this would be. 

“Mademoiselle Daae,” Nadir said upon Christine’s arrival, “forgive me for leaving so abruptly the other day.”

Christine approached him rather shyly, but her words bubbled with warmth when she spoke. “It’s I who should apologize, Monsieur. I hadn’t expected Erik to have more company. How shall I address you?”

“If you’re already so intimate with my Erik, then you may call me ‘Nadir.’ We have no reason for propriety in a cellar, after all.”

She’d laughed at that, and Erik felt such a boiling sense of envy towards the Daroga that it took him a good moment to realize Nadir had called him ‘my Erik.’ 

“Yes, yes, now that we’re introduced, let’s have tea- I’ve prepared some honey cake for the occasion,” Erik said, eager to come between them.

After he helped Christine to the couch, Erik prepared to take his seat beside her. But Nadir grabbed his arm from behind, a tight palm around his shoulder.

And wrapping another arm around Erik’s waist, the Daroga said with a smile, “Come dear, sit down. I’m sure you must be tired after that row across the lake.”

Nadir settled into the armchair, and yanked Erik into his lap. From the couch, Christine watched them with round eyes, as if unsure how to react. Erik too did not know how to react, a thousand curses in his mind. But he couldn’t very well murder the Daroga in front of Christine!

“What are you doing?” he hissed lowly in the Persian’s native tongue.

“All you asked of me,” Nadir replied.

Then- back to French- the Daroga said, “Oh, do you mind us taking the armchair, Mlle. Daae? Erik does so love to recline upon me.”

Erik bit his tongue, as to prevent a long, “Pardon!?” from escaping his lips.

“Not at all,” Christine said.

Then, as if eager for something to do, she picked up the teapot. “Ah, allow me.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” Erik said, “I will do it-”

But Nadir was one step ahead again. He slid Erik from his lap and rose to take the handle from Christine. Looking at Erik with the edge of a smirk, he said, “Nonsense,  _ my love,  _ allow me. I would hate for you to burn those beautiful hands.”

Nadir poured Erik’s tea first. Then Christine’s. The audacity! Erik thought, the damned audacity! 

“Erik has lovely hands, wouldn’t you agree?” Nadir asked Christine, “I dare say, it is the only lovely part of him. Besides his voice, of course. But because I am so smitten with him, I find Erik to be an unconventional beauty of sorts.”

He set the pot down and sat back down, again pulling Erik onto his thighs, evidently certain that Erik would attempt no harm on his Persian head with Christine around. And as loathe as Erik was to admit it, the Daroga was correct in that assumption. He felt himself stiffen when Nadir’s arms came around his waist again, this time in some mock embrace, much too tight for comfort. 

“Have some shame,” Erik spat. Then remembering his own blasted plan, forced his tongue to soften. “I’m sure Christine doesn’t want to hear you talk of Erik. Let’s, let’s all try the cake, yes.”

“Oh!” Christine said, upon closer inspection of the cake, surely a mundane distraction from the scene before her. “This is from that new bakery, Erik. I’ve been trying to sneak a taste, but the lines are always so long-”

Erik had stood in line for well over a day and a half for that cake and now it was to be wasted on the Daroga. 

“Eat to your heart’s content!” Erik said, “take it all if you wish!”

“I shouldn’t eat too much of it. I have a dinner tonight.”

A dinner? Erik thought, With who, that boy? Yes, it must be the boy! As the theories ran through his head (surely the vicomte would not dare propose!), Christine sliced pieces of cake for each mouth. She held a plate towards him.

Then, with a light laugh, she said, “How will you two eat this way?”

Nadir returned her smile. “As we always do. Come, Erik- why don’t you demonstrate?”

“Demonstrate what?” Erik grumbled.

And he felt himself blanch when Nadir opened his mouth, an audible “ah” escaping. He meant for Erik to feed him in front of Christine. Seething, Erik snatched the plate from Christine and forking a bite-too-large, stuffed into Nadir’s mouth. But the Daroga’s smug joy did not falter. He chewed away on that damned cake, undisturbed by the crumbs that sprinkled themselves upon his beard.

Erik grabbed a napkin and dabbed away Nadir’s crumbs, trying and failing to wipe the smirk from his handsome Persian face. 

“Thank you, darling,” Nadir said, “everything tastes so much sweeter when it comes from you.”

Christine sipped her tea. And perhaps unsure what else to say, she told them, “You... have a most wonderful relationship.”

“Ah,” Erik said through grit teeth, “that we do.”

“Now that’s enough about us for one afternoon,” Nadir said, “I know so little about you, Mlle. Daae. Would you care to tell me how you started singing?”

“I would love to,” Christine replied, a bit of a grin between her lips.

While she talked, Nadir rubbed a hand across Erik’s head, as if petting some soft creature and not the living corpse he’d consistently cursed throughout the years. And for some infernal reason, he would not stop petting until Erik shoved his wrist away. 

Erik looked to the clock on the mantle. Not even an hour had passed. And the Daroga had promised himself to Erik for the entire afternoon. They would endure a long afternoon indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! And as always, comments/kudos feed my village, water my crops, and cleanse my soul! Also @helloitskrisha: there WILL be pining, do not fret!
> 
> This one can stand alone for now, but I'd love to continue this, so I can say that going forward: we will have RC, pharoga frenemies to friends to lovers + pining, and a happy ending for all. 
> 
> (and if any of you feel so inclined, it's 100% cool to drop new prompts in the comments: I specialize in pharoga, Erik whump, and for lack of better word, crack!)


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